


Burn

by neonbutchery



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: 3Edgy5Me, Angst, Backstory, Bad Decisions, Character Study, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Mercenaries, Not Beta Read, Original Character(s), Salarians (Mass Effect), Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 15:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30057399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonbutchery/pseuds/neonbutchery
Summary: After running away and finding himself stuck in the worst of situations, he thinks about what has led him here—and he knows he’s hopeless.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Short story about my OC, Sunshine’s backstory and early years as a mercenary. Being a runaway isn’t pretty.
> 
> Please note that this contains a lot of references to lore within the Mass Effect universe, so if you’re unfamiliar with it, I apologize in advance. 
> 
> Content warning for transphobia, misgendering of a trans character, implicit and explicit violence, descriptions of injuries and implied coercion/abuse whatever you want to call it. Rated M for topics that might be potentially triggering to the reader. 
> 
> In the improbable case you want to learn more about my OCs, I’m on Tumblr too! Same username as here.

The alcohol burns. The wound is deep and the sting sends chills through his spine, and then, in an effort to be quiet, he bites his lower lip. He doesn’t want them to hear him and inevitably laugh at the merc newbie who thinks a gash is worth crying over. They’re a krogan warrior and an ex-asari commando, and he’s just a pathetic salarian runaway who can barely hold a rifle without getting shocked by the noise of gunfire. 

He should be grateful. They are the ones who took him in and rescued him from the bar fight he had accidentally caused in that station and the ones who are letting him stay on their ship free of charge, even if they’ve given him a mattress next to the drive core and called it a room. His new quarters are small and dark and the only thing that makes them remotely homey is the sad excuse of a jacket he pieced together from his old Dalatrass attire. For someone who wants to get rid of his past as much as possible, he sure is keeping that. It smells like the sick, twisted place he used to call home, and provides comfort when the cigarettes don’t. It’s a memento of his origins, a reminder that no matter where he goes, the suffocating skies of Erinle and that smell—artificial, sterile, yet rancid, just like the substance he’s pouring on his fingers—will always follow him. Long sessions of private tutoring and lessons about etiquette and contracts that are a part of him even if he’s (apparently) turned over a new leaf. It’s in his DNA, the same DNA that comes from a bloodline of minor salarian rulers and sets him apart from anyone else.

Now, the heir of the Silor family is in a flying piece of junk somewhere in the Terminus systems, and instead of negotiating breeding pacts, he negotiates in a much more universal language: bullets. He’s left the comfort of the life of a diplomat to attempt a career as a mercenary, and not out of his own volition. When he first ran away from his family, he had the idea of getting an average job as a shopkeeper in some colony and settle down. He’s never been someone who likes getting in trouble. But he had to step on that port, get in that fight, and meet the two mercenaries who have taken him in as a helper to boss around and bring on missions.

He couldn’t have refused, anyways. They were armed and carried themselves with the confidence of someone who’s taken lives away with no regrets. He was alone, scared, and desperately wanted something—or someone—to cling to. 

He didn’t catch their names the first time they met and he’s too shy to ask, so he’s nicknamed them Red and Azure. Suits them well. Red is your average bounty hunter who left Tuchanka to play bodyguard to some rich tycoon before becoming a freelancer, and Azure has told him about her time as a commando and her departure from the formal asari military when the war ended. They are partners, both in crime and in love, and make a living out of death, smuggling, and acts that have gotten them banned in Council space. He’s the third wheel who makes a living out of doing the dirty work they don’t want to do—cleaning, grocery shopping, getting weapons and armor ready—and enduring their drunken conversations and nights of loud sex. They offered him to join once and he has avoided going near their room ever since.

From a future leader to a nobody who spends long hours scrubbing pipes and staining his hands with grease. From a beloved daughter to a killer. Sometimes, he wonders what would happen if he came back to his family and had a normal life. He’d like to think he’s still the same person. He has always been reserved, someone who keeps to himself but enjoys the occasional company. He’d like to think he hasn’t changed, even if he doesn’t hesitate to pull a trigger anymore and his previously unblemished skin now bears the marks of gunfire and blades. He even has a nickname, courtesy of Red. The krogan started calling him Sunshine—in reference to his skin, an orange and yellow gradient that resembles afternoon skies—and it has stuck. 

Would his mother recognize him? Would his father remember his dark eyes? He desperately wants to think they would, even if he knows he’s someone different.

He’s always been, though. From the moment he realized he wasn’t the person his parents wanted him to be and that there was something odd about him. From the moment he realized all the times he had fawned over boys came from something deeper than just teenage infatuation. 

He and his sister had been the only females of the clutch. Yaeha was born with the gift of being a biotic and was sent to train as an operative. He was less lucky and as soon as he came of age, was thrust upon with roles and adjectives that didn’t fit him.  _ Daughter. Woman. Dalatrass. She _ . They’re uncomfortable and they hurt as much as his wound, wrapping around his skin and rendering him with a pain that paralyzes him. 

But wounds can be treated. Alcohol—it does the job when medigel’s not here—and a bandage. He lets out a sigh of relief when he’s finally done patching himself up and tears start running down his cheeks, silently sobbing in the dim fluorescent light. He doesn’t want to cry because he doesn’t want to be weak. Weak people don’t survive in the lawless underbelly of the galaxy. Weak people don’t shed tears over a bullet grazing your skin and causing a minor scratch. And yet he isn’t still used to being physically hurt and leaving combat with a couple of new scars; at least ones that will be visible. 

He knows the pain will subside after a while. It always does, even when it seems like it will consume him and he will bleed out on the floor, leaving an ugly corpse. He will survive this like he’s survived punches, kicks and gashes. He will survive this like he survived nineteen years of his life pretending to be someone he wasn’t, knowing he was alone in a world that didn’t care for people like him.

But while the sting continues, burning against the sterile bandages that cover his skin, he closes his eyes, curls up in a ball and hopes the tears will wash everything away and he will burn, consumed by a flame and then turned into ashes.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, dear readers, Sunshine’s life does get better. Eventually.


End file.
